Control
by Salmiakki Skittles
Summary: "Control… Control…" His agonised groans took precedence over his words. For one of so many thoughts, the words were certainly forced. Trust a man like him to waste his few lasting breaths on such pointless utters. Always a bit of a show-off, always had been. It was his nature. It was a part of him.


The footsteps were louder. Deafening. I could hear the panting too. Finally, I receive a visit. It took long enough, after all, I've been here all locked away in a small corner of his great mansion filled with the uncountable number of rooms brimming with his brilliance and the never-ending halls of his thoughts.

_"Control… Control…"_ His agonised groans took precedence over his words. For one of so many thoughts, the words were certainly forced. Trust a man like him to waste his few lasting breaths on such pointless utters. Always a bit of a show-off, always had been. It was his nature. It was a part of him. Still, his mind was slowed. It took him a whole thirty seconds to become aware of his surroundings. Padded walls, cylindrical room construction. The signs were right in front of you after all. Without your mind, you're nothing after all.

Ohh wait… You noticed. I could tell. Your breathing; laboured and concentrated. As if you wanted, no... Needed to be able to think. Without your mind, you're quite useless. Make somebody a handsome rug after all, once you were skinned, since nothing else was of value without it. _"You…"_ Ahh, nice to be acknowledged in your own home. You should know, after all you were the one to let me live here. Not a stimulating existence, but still one with reason. I was important enough, left my mark on you. Couldn't get me out of your head._ "You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel it? The pain?"_ The pain..? Well, that isn't quite so true, my dear. It just takes just the right amount of practice. Think about it. Your tolerance levels exceed that of an average man when it comes to your pain threshold… But that isn't enough, is it now? You need something more. Something stronger. Something darker.

"You always feel it, Sherlock…" I slowly began to turn my head towards him, slow and deliberate. No rush. It felt odd being spoken to... Moving... Living. It felt, well, almost human. I couldn't say how many hours I spent there. Biding my time, waiting for you to come running back to me, begging me to fix it. It was only a matter of time… I felt so confused though. Disorientated, yet it was slowly returning. The emotion… The feeling… The ability to move. I felt strength in my legs, trickling in like a crack in a dam. It only grows steadier, increasing with intent. Seizing my chance, I shot up and ran towards the man before me, stopped only by the restraints in his very being holding me. I wanted to see his face, the horrified glint in his eye after realising that only I can fix it in the end. "But you don't have to fear it." A rush flooded through me. My voice was returning, along with my strength. Widening my eyes, I gazed hungrily on the detective. For so long had I nothing but the boresome walls before me, the same view every moment. If I closed my eyes, all I could see was that face. The expression of shock and incomprehension gracing his features. Not his best look, but one I would always savour. The moment I defeated Sherlock Holmes.

He let himself go, leasing his concentration to the distraction. My eyes remained wide, watching as he doubled over in pain. Letting it all flood into him freely. Without proper attention, how could he ever expect to simply will away an injury and its consequences? He is a man of science, of deduction, after all. His groans felt pitiful. Just like the sound of a small animal clinging onto the last pathetic scraps of their existence, their soft, feeble attempts of pleading. Pleading for a wish never to be granted. He lay upon the ground, as I stood above. How it had always been. Me, watching him from above like a merciful higher being, giving him all he ever wanted. The truth. The truth was always the key to everything, wasn't it? The single most powerful thing somebody could possess? "Pain… Heartbreak… Loss… And death… It's all good." I knelt down, closer to whisper to him, watching his body writhe against the ground. It really was such a wonderful thing, once you could accept it. It's how we truly are. The very essence of our being. "So good."

"It's raining. It's pouring..." I glanced down once more, no change. "Sherlock is boring." Was it really something that difficult to accept? He had laid there, like some lame dog. Unable to stand with his own feet and simply walk away, so he continued struggling. Struggling like as if there was no other choice. "I'm laughing. I'm crying..." The movements began to weaken, soon becoming little more than spasmodic twitches. Light slowly began to drift from his eyes. Those very same eyes which used to glint with such a well-rehearsed sense of superiority. "Sherlock is dying."

Hesitantly making my way closer, I could feel my own strength beginning to drift away, just like it had always been since I came here. Such a dark, mundane atmosphere… I'm honestly surprised he never came to visit. Never dropped by to pass a thought. I leant over him, taking in the sight below me. "Come on, Sherlock. Just die, why don't you?" Laying myself down, I used a part of my remaining strength to kick myself forward to face Sherlock. To meet his eye. "One little push." Exhaling softly, I turned to face myself upward, watching the ceiling just as my dear visitor was. Just as mundane as the walls. There was never any change. Everything was always hazy, difficult to concentrate… You would always lose yourself in one way or another.

We stayed like that together for a little while, until I couldn't bear the sight of that damned padding any longer. I pushed myself up against the wall, head spinning from the sudden rush of blood. "You're gonna love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you." Slowly regaining my footing, I forced myself properly upright. "... But Mrs Hudson will cry. And Mummy and Daddy will cry. And the woman will cry." I had honestly expected a reaction there; she had told me stories of her encounters. Left me little notes. I always enjoyed a good story, after all. "And John will cry buckets and buckets. It's him I worry about the most." Pacing back and forth, I spun around, trying to shake off the remaining traces of drowsiness in my thoughts. I could feel the chain wrapping around me, just slightly, through the straightjacket.

That wife…" Pursing my lips, I exhaled, letting my lips vibrate. I sure hope he got the message, despite being so drained. I glanced over, looking for some sort of reaction. Still nothing... "You're letting him down, Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger."

With that, his eyes had shot open as if something had awakened. I knew it… That little pet of his was his true pressure point. A good friend. Perhaps the only one he had ever had. He was always so protective of the doctor, constantly afraid that he'd lead him into his death one day. Inevitable, yes… But certainly not wanted. He'd fight that reality… Even in his own little mind palace. Forcing himself up, Sherlock began trying to sit himself up using jerking movements. He fell each time, but I must admit, he does score some points for trying. "Ohh, you're not getting better, are you?" Was it something I said? Huh?" With that final movement, he had finally managed to stand, much to my surprise. Sherlock wasn't supposed to make it… It wasn't how things were meant to turn out.

With his injuries and bleeding, death was inevitable from a medical perspective. His body had completely shut down, heart rate dropping drastically until almost nothing about the man was alive. Nothing but the single thought he had focussed on with the itty ounces of willpower remaining. You couldn't call him a weak man in any sense of the word, ignorant and spontaneous, but never weak. A single man could never force a desire like that, a single condensed reason to survive. Not a man with such compassion at Sherlock. His thoughts would wander too far. So he went looking into the very spirals of his mind, and he finally found me...

"Sherlock!"

And the last I saw of him was that silhouetted of his passing into the blinding light. Much like the angels he had always sided with. So painful, yet free. People say that death is the final freedom. It honestly isn't, think of how long I've been trapped within his mind. Two years. Two long, painful, excruciating years trapped within the walls of a mansion. Only to be a prisoner. A prisoner within his palace. Such a fitting fate for a man of my calibre, wouldn't you say? The man who fixed all the little problems of the incapable. The name that drove even the great Sherlock Holmes to his suicide. Now, the imprisoned has salvaged the prisoner from his own mind.


End file.
